The Magnificent Mr Rakata!
by Elwin Ransom
Summary: An inimitably unintelligent Revan reprogrammed by the Jedi Council discovers a mysterious box he was ordered to leave alone. Bastila unwittingly joins him and a battle for the ages ensues as they confront the magical box man in riddles and trivial pursuit


Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. Nor do I own most of the jokes in this very homage-centric attempt at humor.

**The Magnificent Mr. Rakata!**

_Well, this is interesting_, thought Art Vandelay—Revan, though he did not know this yet—as he beheld the ambiguous construct that had somehow materialized inside the cargo hold of the _Ebon Hawk_. He was unsure what it was, but it appeared to be of some kind of ancient, pyramidal design. He was certain of this because of how obscenely triangular it was. From all sides—it was very symmetrical. It would have been a work of art—and he would have been happy to treat it so, using his crafty intellect to persuade some highbrow fool to buy it from him and make a quick buck. However, this was not a possibility.

The peddler of a middleman that had asked him to transport it had piqued his curiosity.

"Whatever you do—don't open it," the rodian had told him.

"What?" Art had asked back, "is it a bomb or something?"

"No, it's not a bomb," the rodian answered while shuffling his feet, "just don't open it."

"It's a cheesecake!" Art accused.

The Rodian seemed shocked at this, and his hesitation to answer proved to Art that it was indeed a cheesecake. The alien slowly regained his composure and said, "No…it's not a cheesecake. Just _don't_, under any circumstances, open the box."

Naturally, this meant Art would open the box the very first opportunity he had. _I'll just save first_, he thought to himself. It really was a good failsafe. He could do anything he wanted provided he had a sturdy save file to back up on. Sometimes he would accidentally blurt out an offensive and somewhat thuggish comment, and when he would be rewarded with a steaming pile of dark side points, he would reload and then redo the event. As such, everyone perceived him as an angel—especially the one person whom he tried very hard to convince of his angelic qualities.

"Bastila!" said Art from within the cargo hold.

The elegantly attractive woman was floating through the nearby hallway and heard him call after her. She was hesitant at first due to the last time they had met alone in the unwatched sections of the ship, but she overcame her fears when she heard what it is he was excited about.

"Bastila," he said, "here, come open this box with me."

She strode in smoothly. Upon examining the strange contraption, she put her hands on her hips and said, "Can't you open it yourself?"

"Well, yes."

"Then why do you need me around?"

"I don't know, I figured you'd get bored of meditating and would like to work off some stress."

She twisted her neck and looked at him somewhat despairingly before asking, "By…opening boxes?"

"Yes," he answered simply, "because most boxes have those little bubble wrap things in them. You can pop them and I find it relieves a lot of stress."

"Oh," she said flatly.

Without waiting for her consent, Art opened the box. It unfolded evenly on all sides with an almost mechanical unity, emanating a pleasant, bright glow.

"Hmm, it's pretty," said Bastila.

With the absence of warning a whip-like spire of white light spat out from the box and wrapped violently around Art's head. He grabbed Bastila's wrist and screamed, "Gah! Get it off, get it off!"

"Hold still!" Bastila pleaded as she tried vainly to grab at it. She lurched in vain for a few moments before finally making contact with it. She tried to wrench it off and free her erstwhile companion, but as soon as she felt it give they were suddenly transported to a bizarre and frightening place. There was a blinding explosion of white light and they were both momentarily blinded.

At length, both of them blinked and opened their eyes. They found themselves in another universe. Before them stretched a vast expanse of pure whiteness with no conceivable end. There was not even a horizon for them to use to gauge their surroundings. They were merely floating in an existential void of white light.

"Where the hell are we?" Art asked.

"You ask that like I would know the answer," Bastila retorted, "I have no idea."

"You say that like you are mad at me," he said sadly, though seemingly trying to imitate her manner of speech.

"I am mad at you."

"You say that like it is my fault," he continued.

"It is your fault! God you are an idiot, Revan!"

"Revan?" he asked. "I'm not Revan…"

Bastila's veins instantly ran cold. She stuttered and then tried to calm herself. She took a deep breath and then said, "Uh, sorry. I didn't mean that. It's just that we were talking about Revan with the Council and I'm still suffering from horrible visions because of my encounter with him and oh my," she coughed, "what's that over there!" She pointed off into the distance, hoping it would distract Art.

It did.

"What? Where?" he asked, spinning around.

She was amazed at the identity the Council had reprogrammed this man with. They had taken the most feared man in the Republic and turned him into a blundering moron. Not only was this version of Revan an inept fool, but he was also a pathological liar. He frequently would introduce himself to people and then explain that he was an architect or some other esteemed profession. He had even once tried to pose as a latex salesman—and he used her to vouch for him. Needless to say, it did not end well.

What made matters worse was that, for reasons she could not explain, she was hopelessly attracted to him. It really pissed her off. She had always figured that if she were to ever fall in love with a man and break the code, it would be because he was simply too charismatic, intelligent, and handsome for her to resist. Art was none of these, yet she could not help herself.

She sighed deeply as she watched him scour the horizon for the thing she had "observed" earlier.

"Hey!" he said, "I think I see it!"

"Art…" she lamented, "there isn't anything out there…I was just—"

"No, really," he continued, "I see something."

She rerouted her line of sight and looked out towards where he was facing. Sure enough, there were several dark specks in the distance.

"Let's go over there," suggested Art.

It took them almost twenty minutes, but they finally made it. As they drew closer, the specks became larger and they could see that they were ruins of some kind. There also appeared to be a lawn chair and an alien. Once they were within speaking distance, it greeted them.

"Hello there!" it said.

It was certainly a strange alien, neither of them had seen anything like it before.

Bastila was going to respond courteously, but before she could Art shouted, "What the hell are you?!"

"Why does everyone always ask me that?" the alien shouted angrily, "What? Never seen a guy in a box before?!"

Art twitched and said, "Uh…'course I have. My cousin's in a box. My friend Canderous's, uh, sister, also…you know…box." He gulped before finishing, "I got a lot of box experience."

Bastila just rolled her eyes. She said, "What is this place? And who are you?"

"I'm H.E. Pennypacker, a wealthy industrialist," responded the alien. He glanced around and said, "And this is my box. It's a prison, what does it look like? What could be a better prison?" When Pennypacker saw that they did not know, he said, "I suppose your species uses cages."

"Very well," Bastila supplemented, "how do we get out of here?"

"Ah, that is the million dollar question, isn't it?" Pennypacker asked rhetorically. "I've been here for thousands of years, but I've figured out a way to escape."

Art's face lightened up, he said, "Great!"

"Hold on," said Pennypacker, "there's a catch."

"Oh," said Art and Bastila at the same time, their smiles running away from their faces.

"We can't all escape. I need your bodies."

Art recoiled in horror, said, "Hell no you're taking my body, you…you fiend!"

"Calm down," said Pennypacker, "I'm not taking your body. I can't do it without your consent. You see, there's three of us, but only two bodies as I presume yours are both lying motionless outside of my box. As such, only two of us can escape. Now, we can argue about this, but I doubt your bodies will live very long out there, so we'll have to come up with a challenge."

"Great!" said Art, "I love armwrestling."

Pennypacker was a little perturbed, said hesitantly, "Weren't you listening? I said that your bodies are _outside_, our minds are in here. You can't armwrestle with your mind."

"You can't?" Art asked seriously.

Pennypacker sighed and looked at Bastila, he said, "He isn't too bright, is he?"

She sighed a very, very long and drawn out sigh, almost deteriorating into a minute long hiss before saying, "No. No he isn't."

"Well," said Pennypacker, straightening out his very odd alien-clothes, "let's set the terms." He looked them both over and said, "Now, this will be a contest between myself and…"

"Art," said Art.

"Art," Pennypacker continued, "the winner will be released, but the loser will have to stay behind."

"What?!" Art cried, "why me?! I don't want to die!"

"You won't die," assured Pennypacker, "you'll just stay here until someone else comes along."

"What about Bastila?" asked Art, gesturing towards her.

"She'll be fine," answered the alien, "she's getting released no matter who wins."

"Really?" Bastila asked, her face lightening up. "Well," she said smiling, "that changes everything. Compete away!"

"Very well," said Pennypacker, "I believe riddles should suffice. We take turns, whoever fails to answer correctly must surrender. Do we have terms?"

Art looked sadly at Bastila, said, "Bastila…I'm not good at riddles." His face was the very definition of traumatized.

"You'll be fine," she assured him, forcing a smile. He seemed to straighten up, and then she thought to herself, _He's dead_.

"I will begin," said Pennypacker. He cracked his leathery alien neck and then started his riddle. He said:

"_To you, rude I would never be,_

_Though I flag my tongue for all to see._"

"Yes?" asked Art.

"You're supposed to answer the riddle. Who am I?" said Pennypacker, growing confident in his ability to win. Truly, there was no way this man "Art" could stand a chance if he was this dense.

Bastila had to admit that she did not know the answer. She thought about her mother, thinking that she would be rude to everyone, but that did not really make sense since she was also rude to her. She was a bit puzzled. Though she was trying to think of a way to explain to the Jedi Council that Revan's body had become possessed by an ancient alien.

"Wagging tongue," Art thought aloud. "Is it…a dog?"

H.E. Pennypacker was rendered totally immobile. Could this unequivocal idiot have really answered his riddle that easily? It then occurred to him that he should have spent the first 15,000 years of his imprisonment coming up with better riddles. "Uh…y-yes, it's a dog," he said.

"Yay!" shouted Art.

"Good job," Bastila said, patting him on the back.

"All right, your turn," said Pennypacker.

"Hmm," Art murmured, deep in thought. "I knew a riddle once."

"I'll bet you did," said Pennypacker.

"Come on, Art, you can remember it," Bastila said, pitifully trying to cheer him on.

He cleared his throat, said:

"_When I am young, I go on four legs, then I go on two legs, then I go on three legs, then I die_."

Pennypacker took only a moment's pause before saying, "Easy—a man. You use a cane in old age, a third leg."

"Damn it!" shouted Art.

"My turn again," said the alien. He rubbed his hands together and then began his second riddle. He said:

"_My voice is tender, my waist is slender_

_And I'm often invited to play. Yet_

_Wherever I go I must take my bow or_

_Else I have nothing to say._"

Art was totally clueless. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, and Pennypacker thought he could practically taste freedom. Art continued opening and closing his mouth, muttering parts of the riddle. He said, "Tender...slender waist," and "Beautiful."

Pennypacker was on the edge of his seat. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Bastila," said Art.

"She can't help you," informed Pennypacker, "that would be cheating."

"No," said Art, "the answer is Bastila. She's tender and slender."

Both Pennypacker's and Bastila's mouths dropped. The alien was utterly confounded at the ineptitude of his foe, and Bastila was floored as well. Though she was shocked for a different reason, and found herself inexplicably drawn to Art. She murmured quietly, "That's so _sweet_."

"No," said the alien, barely containing his enthusiasm, "the answer is not Bastila. Although I do not contest her slenderness—the answer is a violin."

Art hung his head in defeat. He looked at Bastila longingly and said, "Goodbye, Bastila." He gulped and said, "Before you go…there's something I want to tell you."

Bastila held her breath, but before Art could confess his undying love for her, she blurted out something. She exclaimed, "Wait! You can't go yet."

"Why not?" asked Pennypacker, "I won."

"No, not yet. You have to answer another riddle correctly," she stated.

"What?! No I don't!"

"You do," she pressed, "because this way is unfair. He had to answer two riddles, you only had to answer one. If you get the next one correct _then _you win."

Pennypacker clenched his fists and grumbled. He felt his freedom being ingloriously snatched from him. He said, "Fine! Ask another one."

"I don't know anymore riddles!" Art lamented. "What do I do?!"

"_Think_, Art," said Bastila. Now that she knew he had such a one-track mind that he could only think about her for twenty-four hours a day, she knew that she did not want him dead. It was too…endearing. Although, it was a bit creepy.

Art put his hands into his pockets, trying hard to think of something. He looked into his past and tried to think of anything that rhymed. However, in the middle of his thoughts, he felt something at the bottom of his right pocket. He said aloud, "What have I got in my pocket?" He was talking to himself, but Pennypacker thought it was a riddle, and he was not pleased.

"Not fair! Not fair!" said Pennypacker, "how on earth am I supposed to know?"

Art, seeing Pennypacker's reaction, decided to stick with his question as he had none better. He repeated, "What have I got in my pocket?"

Pennypacker hissed, "Give me three guesses."

"Very well," said Art, "Guess!"

"Hands!" said the alien.

"Wrong!" answered Art, who had just barely pulled his hand out of his pocket in time. "Try again."

"Hmm, a knife!" said Pennypacker.

"Wrong!" said Art, "I lost mine a while ago."

Pennypacker was really distressed now. He could not possibly be losing his freedom like this, could he? Not to this idiot. He swayed back and forth, biting his lower lip and wringing his hands.

"I'm waiting," said Art.

Pennypacker still was twitching, but at length he said, "String!" he paused and then immediately added on, "Or nothing!"

"Both wrong!" said Art. "And that's four guesses, you cheated."

"_I cheated?!_" boomed Pennypacker. "This is _absurd!_"

"Now you're even again," said Bastila. "It's your turn to ask a riddle."

"But I don't know anymore riddles!" exclaimed Pennypacker.

Both Bastila and Art were slack jawed. "You mean," she began, "You've been here for thousands of years, were planning on using riddles to get free…and you didn't bother to come up with any new ones?"

"I know, I know!" said Pennypacker, "I'm an idiot! I'm almost as stupid as he is!" He pointed at Art as he said this.

"What did I do?" he asked. No one answered so he said, "I don't know any more riddles either."

"Then it appears we are at an impasse," said Pennypacker. "I do not know what to do."

All three of them went quiet for several minutes before Bastila suggested, "How about a game of trivial pursuit?"

Pennypacker brightened up, said, "Good idea! I happen to have one of those under my lawn chair! I'll go get it."

A few moments later, Pennypacker returned with the game. He began setting it up.

An hour later, after a vicious duel between the two men, the stage was set. Popular culture easily went Art's way, as the alien had been out of the loop for twenty millennia, but Pennypacker was significantly better at everything else.

At length he cackled a victorious laugh and said, "Okay, history!" He smirked, "This is for the game. How you doin' over there? Not too good?"

"All right, Pennypacker," said Art, "let's just play." He picked up the card and read the question on it. He asked, "Who invaded Spain in the 8th century?"

"That's a joke!" barked Pennypacker, "the Moors!"

"Oh nooooo," said Art, elongating the 'no' as much as possible, "I'm so sorry. It's the _Moops_. The correct answer is the Moops."

Bastila cheered at this, and Art basked in his victory, preserving his life at least for now.

"Moops?!" yelled Pennypacker. "Let me see that!" He snatched the card from Art's hand and read over it. He then exclaimed, "That's not Moops, you jerk! It's Moors. It's a misprint!"

Art smiled devilishly and said, "I'm sorry, the card says Moops."

"It doesn't matter!" continued Pennypacker, irate. "It's the Moors! There's no Moops!"

"It's _Moops_," insisted Art.

"Moors!" Pennypacker called back.

"Moops," said Art, standing up.

"_Moors!_" Pennypacker screamed. He stood up as well and then launched himself at Art. Art had no way to expect it and was caught totally off guard. The alien grasped Art's throat with both his hands and started to shake him violently. "There's no Moops! You idiot!" he shouted through gritted teeth.

"Help…" Art muttered in between gasps for breath.

Bastila tried to pull Pennypacker off him, said, "Stop it! Let go of him!"

"I'm going to kill him!" roared Pennypacker.

"Bastila…" croaked Art, "Bastila…"

"It's Moors! Say Moors!" the alien continued yelling, shaking Art more and more.

"Bastila…" Art tried again, "Press the…hammer button…"

"The hammer button?" she asked quizzically, "Where?"

"It's…" he gasped again, "It's on the HUD."

Bastila scanned the HUD on the screen and eventually her eyes came to rest on the small hammer in the upper right hand corner of the screen.

Art's face was going white. He was not getting any air and was quickly losing consciousness. He stared up at the fiery eyes of H.E. Pennypacker and thought that the burning alien irises were the last things he would see, but then suddenly he was free.

He and Bastila were inexplicably jettisoned out of the white universe and they were now in front of a blue and black screen with several boxes in front of them.

"Click 'load game'," said Art.

"Okay," she obliged. After clicking on it, a list of files saves showed up. The top one had a subtitle that read "Captain Bad."

"Click the most recent save," said Art.

Bastila did not comply immediately. She asked disbelievingly, "Did you name your most recent save 'Captain Bad'?"

"Yes," answered Art honestly. "Why?"

"I can't believe I love you," she said with an audible sigh.

"You love me?!" Art exclaimed, giddy.

Bastila clicked on the saved file. Both them were thrown through a vortex of all kinds of sights, sounds, and colors. They were cast through oblivion, but they materialized right inside of the _Ebon Hawk_, standing on their feet.

Bastila was in her quarters, meditating, having lost her memory of what had just happened.

Art Vandelay was standing in front of a mysterious box in the cargo hold of the _Ebon Hawk_, wondering if he should contradict his orders and open it. After all, he could always reload a past save file if things got too dicey.

_Author's Notes: It occurs to me that this was a lot of inside jokes. I hope whoever read this had a working knowledge of Seinfeld :P_


End file.
